Better Than Waiting
by oursolemnhour49
Summary: Lind L. Tailor was a man of action. And given the choice, he would rather be doing something than sitting and waiting for his death sentence. While he waits for execution, a strange visitor offers him a deal. One-shot.


_Yes, I really wrote this story about someone we see for less than a minute before Light kills him. If Lind L. Tailor hadn't cooperated for the broadcast, L would have either been screwed or gotten nowhere in looking for Kira. That alone made Tailor interesting to me. This is just my take on how Tailor ended up getting the role of L's stand-in. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note._

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There is very little for a man to do in a jail cell when he is waiting to be executed.

Lind L. Tailor had never thought before about how much of his life had been spent _doing_. He had overseen the mass transit of drugs and arms in seventeen different countries. That overseeing was more than just supervision; Tailor had been present whenever the shipments were delivered. He liked knowing the ins and outs of his business. He used to drive out to the station, greet the men and women in charge of the transport personally, sometimes help lift out the heavy crates of guns. Once he had been lifting a bail of cocaine out of a delivery pickup and had dropped the thing onto his foot. He remembered the laugh he and the delivery men had shared about his torrent of curses when the damn thing had hit his foot.

Now he was sitting on his bed, staring at the walls. There was nothing to do but wait.

With a sigh he looked around his cell. There was no point in scanning the room again. He knew that the security cameras were set in the ceiling of the hallway, out of reach of his cell. Even if he had been able to reach them, he never would have been able to manipulate the wiring of the system without proper tools. And he had nothing save for the coarse prison garments. The only furniture was his cot, and a screen that hid the toilet. The walls were concrete painted white. The ceiling and floor were grey.

Tailor wondered why he had not noticed that the floor and ceiling were grey before. His sharp eyes drank in every detail of the cell. The crack in the left-hand corner of the ceiling was just a little chink near where the ceiling met the wall, but he wanted to remember it. The blunted texture of the painted concrete was as sharp as if he was seeing it through a microscope. The man noted the unyielding outline of the steel door. He had always avoided looking at the door, afraid that if he looked at it, he would lose his composure and begin to claw uselessly at the cracks. He was going to die in a few hours. And though he had self-control, he was not sure how he would make it through that last span of time.

For the first time he wondered what those Interpol men had felt when they saw him raising his revolver in his safe house near the docks of New York City. Had the lights from his house flashed on the barrel of his gun? Had they noted the little bit of ivy by the door in the nanosecond before his bullet blew their brains out? Tailor had heard that time slowed down for a man about to die. But time seemed to have literally stopped now. Until the guards came- and then he would have perhaps another forty minutes to memorize the world before it was closed off from him forever. At least he could pick his last food, which was a pleasant thought. He had liked turkey ever since he had tried in America, especially the way it was cooked during Thanksgiving. Though it was unlikely that he could have roast turkey, since he was sitting in Japan now, he could at least ask.

He wished that he could have had a clock in his cell. Anything to know how much time had passed. He almost wished the guards would come. Tailor hated lags in time, long pauses, or long moments where he was doing nothing. Even on all-night flights where he had had little phone service and no Internet, he had kept a notebook and reviewed every history of every alias he possessed. That practice had always kept him from responding as DiMartiano the aircraft merchant when he was in a meeting as Caine the stockholder.

Tailor smiled as he thought about every alias he had had. Making up personalities and pasts for all his names had been enjoyable. He closed his eyes, remembering how well-known he had become on the streets of Chicago as a drug-dealer with connections. Joe King, his name had been, and he'd grown up with an abusive father. Tailor had enjoyed that persona. Joe King acted tough, but was charming with every lady- even the red-haired police officer who had been part of a team that conducted drug raids in his neighborhood. He had always been able to get her to smile, even as she would snap, "I'm on duty, King, so shut up, or you're in for harassment."

His shoulder itched. Sighing, he reached his left hand up to scratch and felt the cloth scraping hard over his skin. He imagined himself standing in the execution chamber, waiting for the drop, with the hanging rope scratching at his neck. It was not a pleasant picture.

Suddenly the door creaked. Tailor closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "Time to go? If you're ready to get my last meal, I'd like turkey, roasted if possible." He opened his eyes.

What he saw astonished him. A young man, so pale he looked like he'd spent his entire life indoors, was standing against the closed door. His shoulders were hunched, and he leaned forward slightly, as though he had some kind of spinal disorder. His clothes were baggy and worn. His thick black hair spiked wildly in all directions, and his huge eyes had deep shadows beneath them.

For a moment Tailor stared at him. He had never met this person in his life. His lawyer was long gone, and no self-respecting law firm would employ someone so scruffy. Nor did this very strange young man look like an officer, and he was clearly not a guard. His large eyes examined Tailor without a trace of emotion.

At last the young man spoke, and when he did, his voice was rather husky and soft. "Tailor-san. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here."

"I suppose it's too much to hope I'm getting a reprieve," Tailor said with a faint grin.

The young man regarded him thoughtfully. "No. Your sentence will be carried out at the hour appointed."

"Then what are you in here for?"

Silence followed Tailor's question. To his surprise, the young man crouched and rested his hands on his knees. He glanced up at the criminal. "I hope you don't mind. The truth is simply that I can think more clearly in this position."

Tailor could not think of anything to say to that, and the young man went on, "I came here because I need the help of someone condemned to die."

"Who needs the help of someone they know won't be around?" Tailor asked curiously.

"I do. I'm a detective who uses the name L, and I often work the police on an international level. And I have taken a case where it is very possible that someone will try to kill me."

"And you want me to stand in for you?"

"Something like that." L shifted a little and began to chew his thumbnail. "Tailor-san, do you hear any news in this place?"

Tailor blinked. "I get a newspaper once a week."

"Then you've heard of the deaths of criminals?"

"From the heart attacks? Yes, I've heard. You think I'm going to be next?"

L lowered his hand. "Only if you agree to it."

"What?"

"Someone- who has become known as Kira- is causing the killings. There are far too many deaths due to heart attacks among criminals for it to be coincidence. And I have a theory about what this killer needs for that to be the case. But to determine for certain, I need someone to die."

"Not much better than him, are you, L?" Tailor said with a laugh.

The young man looked at him thoughtfully. "At least I am asking your permission."

Tailor looked at the floor. "What exactly do you need me for?"

"Kira sees himself as someone passing out judgment. He will not take kindly to anyone who opposes him. I need to see just how he kills, and if he will go so far as to kill someone who opposes him. I think, if someone were to announce himself as me in public, Kira would kill that person for standing in his way. And for that, Tailor-san, I need you. I want you to pretend to be me for a live broadcast, and say the lines I give you convincingly. If you do that, and you die, we'll be much closer to knowing what Kira needs to kill."

"Why bother to ask me? Why not just make me do it?"

"Because you have to say lines to a video camera which will be running live. And you must be convincing enough that Kira will believe you are me, the man who can mobilize the world's police. I thought you were a possible candidate because I saw a news interview of you when you were acting as Bartholomew Hale, a British philanthropist. You are a capable actor. And I am not going to risk the life of someone innocent. You are condemned to die regardless of your choice here. The only difference is that if you choose to help me, you may die of a heart attack rather than a hanging. But if nothing happens, you will not be saved, and you will be executed as scheduled."

Tailor was quiet throughout this speech, and did not break the silence that hung after it. L stared at the floor as though it had fascinating secrets to discover. Though the criminal did not want to admit it, he was very curious. The irony that he, with more deaths than he could remember to his name, was being asked to die for the sake of the police was laughable. "Why didn't you just tell me to do this without all the backstory? What if I give it away to Kira while on air?" he asked at last.

"If you had not already been informed of your death sentence, I probably would have had you do this without explaining it to you. But you have already been told that you will die. If the police told you to pretend that you are the man who can mobilize the world's police when you know you will be executed, there would be a risk that you would not cooperate when the broadcast began. It is hard to know what a man who is condemned to die would do if asked to perform this charade without a reason. Now that you know why I am asking you to do this, there is a forty percent chance you will answer me honestly, as opposed to a fifteen percent chance."

"Let me see if I have this straight. I pretend to be you on a broadcast. And I'll probably get killed by Kira when I do it. What is it I'm supposed to be saying?"

"If you decide to do this, you will denounce Kira as evil, and say you have a good idea why he is killing criminals. You will be reading off a teleprompter, but you still have to be convincing."

Tailor was quiet for a moment. "So you don't believe Kira's God," he said at last. "I saw an editorial letter in the paper last week where someone was complaining about how people think Kira's a god. But you don't think that."

"I don't know, Tailor-san. I know if you perform this experiment for me, it will go a long way toward determining whether or not Kira is divine."

Again a silence fell. Tailor looked at the ceiling, thinking over his violent capture in New York, his swift transport back to Japan, his trial, his sentencing. "They say a hanging can take a while, depending on whether or not the neck breaks. If it doesn't, you suffocate to death. Kira would be killing me with a heart attack, huh? How long would that take?"

"Usually it takes a few minutes. But the authorities say that all of Kira's heart attacks have killed far more quickly than normal."

Tailor nodded. "And what if I think Kira's a great man and shouldn't be stopped?"

L shrugged. "There is a four percent chance that you truly think that, but if that is the case, I'll stop bothering you." He rose and turned toward the door.

"It's not. I don't care much either way what happens to be honest. Either way I'm going to die and that's mostly what's on my mind. But I have to admit, L- you have me curious. I almost want to find out- if I go up on a camera and say I'm you… see if Kira really is out there. It'd be interesting, anyway."

The younger man turned towards him and stared at him for a long time. His eyes were dispassionate. He looked as though he was thinking over every word Tailor had said and weighing every possible implication of every word. Tailor felt as though the man was reading him inside and out. "So you agree to this, Tailor-san?"

Tailor nodded.

The young man inclined his head and tapped on the door. It opened with a creak, and he slipped out. Five minutes later, two guards entered the room and told Tailor to get up. He rose lazily and followed them to a small room somewhere near the top of his prison. On one wall was a white screen with the Interpol logo and a table. There was a placard on the table with his name emblazoned on it. He saw the camera and wires in front of the table, and knew that there he would perform his final acting job. L was nowhere to be seen. The only people in the room were the two guards, who wore sunglasses and dark suits, and two cameramen who looked very nervous.

He dressed in a well-made suit that was handed to him by one of the guards and read over the lines L wanted him to say to the broadcast. As he did so, Tailor had to smile. Even if he felt that tight pressure over his heart in a few minutes, at least he would die doing something. He sat down at the table, and watched as the light on the camera flashed. The broadcast had begun. He kept his gaze focused on the camera and began: "… I am the person who can mobilize the world's police forces, Lind L. Tailor. I go by the code name 'L'."

It was better than waiting.

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_Reviews, anyone?_


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